


Sweet Dreams

by jaeger_delta (deltasierra)



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Face-Fucking, Hansencest - Freeform, Incest, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltasierra/pseuds/jaeger_delta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herc Hansen has been real goddamn uptight lately, courtesy of his son not being able to stop blathering about Raleigh Becket. Tendo suggests he could use a bit of relaxation, and sends him to a so-called massage 'salon'. And Herc is having a great time until he discovers the identity of his masseur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lies You Hide Behind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155761) by [SublimeDiscordance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SublimeDiscordance/pseuds/SublimeDiscordance). 



> Oops I wrote more Hansencest. This image just popped into my head and I just _had_ to get it out, you know what that's like. I'm sure you don't mind.  <3

 

Herc Hansen has been so uptight lately everything he freaking touches seems to fly out of his hands and break. This has got to be the third mug he’s broken this week, he’s flung open a cabinet against his head, his arms and legs are bruised from walking or smashing into things, and he’s just stopped shaving close for a while until he can stop cutting up his own face.

 

Stacker’s giving him a worried look now and then but doesn’t say anything, expecting Herc to sort out his own mess. Tendo isn’t that soldierly, though. So one day in LOCCENT when Herc almost sends his coffee flying over a million-dollar console, Tendo takes him aside.

 

“Listen, man… I think you need to go out, relax a little.”

 

Herc just about growls at him. “I don’t need to relax,” he says. “I need—”

 

And snaps his jaw shut, before he’s going to blurt out to Tendo what’s _really_ been bothering him. The same singular source of his frustration for years, he reckons; but Chuck’s been more than just a difficult brat lately. With the news of Raleigh Becket heading to Hong Kong the kid has been fucking _insufferable_. Been going on and on about how the retired has-been should’ve stayed on the Wall, doesn’t deserve to call himself a Ranger, is going to fuck up their mission. All Herc’s been hearing all week is Becket’s name coming out of Chuck’s mouth and he pretty much wants to punch everything for it.

 

Things used to be different between them, is all he’s saying. Used to be Chuck was on his knees begging for his daddy’s cock, but ever since the Jaeger program all but fell to pieces a year ago so did their relationship, or whatever the hell it was they had going on amidst the giant clusterfuck of their lives, anyway. Now, when they fuck, it’s quick and angry and about as emotionally satisfying as being clocked in the face with a telegraph pole. Much like every conversation they’re having. Drifting is fucking painful, tearing into each other’s minds, finding unity in their shared anger and frustration at each other, at the Kaiju, at the messed-up place the world has become.

 

And Herc knows his boy. Knows that for all the angry bullshit Chuck is spouting about Becket, the kid’s had the walls of his teenage bedroom plastered with the Becket brothers, has a six-foot-tall model of Gipsy Danger somewhere in storage and he can fucking _feel_ it in the Drift, no matter how much Chuck tries to hide it. Chuck wants to punch Raleigh just about as much as he wants to fuck him. And it makes Herc’s blood boil.

 

He must be looking really awful or frightening or both, because even Tendo is taking a step back now.

 

“Whoa, dude,” Tendo mumbles, and then starts digging through his pockets until he fishes out a business card. “Know what, take the day off, okay? I know this place, it’s pretty special. Seems like the sort of thing you need.”

 

Herc eyes the small card suspiciously. Men’s Dream Salon? Sounds like one of those places you get a massage with a happy ending. “This some kinda joke?” he growls. “I ain’t looking for a hooker to fuck my worries away, mate.”

 

Tendo winks at him. “Trust me, Herc, this isn’t the usual.”

 

Herc sizes up Tendo. He knows the guy has a lot of weird tastes in a lot of places. Tendo’s adventurous enough to find the good spots and decent enough not to send Herc anywhere shady.

 

“Come on,” Tendo urges him on. “Before you break every mug in the Shatterdome.”

 

Herc rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he grumbles, snatching the card out of Tendo’s hands. “But if it turns out to be shit, I’m gonna come here and break _your_ mug.”

 

Tendo gives him a smug grin, because he knows it’s more a lovable insult than anything else. And Herc takes off, trying not to hit anything or anyone on his way out.

 

He expected the business card to lead him to some shady alley in a shadier part of the district, but instead, he’s standing in front of what he’d call a proper fancy joint. The ‘salon’ has a Western design on the outside, all pillars and marble and none of the cheesy pink or red fluorescent lights that Herc associates with places like this. He sets his jaw and struts inside, where he is promptly greeted by a very cheerful and handsome young man.

 

“Mr. Hansen? Follow me,” the boy says, and Herc shrugs. He did make an appointment, and maybe Tendo called in, or something. He sure isn’t eager to keep standing in the middle of the reception lounge where everyone can stare at his ancient sorry ass. He feels supremely out of place here. He’s used to steel and grease, Jaegers and guns. Not marble and sheer curtains and gaggles of barely-dressed young men lounging around on luxurious furniture.

 

The boy leads him through a hallway, up a staircase and through another hallway, and then opens a door, gesturing for Herc to go in. Herc frowns at him, still not sure what to think about all this. He peeks inside, and it’s a small room with another door at the end.

 

“This is a salon where men’s dreams come true, Mr. Hansen,” the boy says with a practiced inflection and dazzling smile. “Lay down, and let yourself go. Let the worries melt off you. This is the place where you can be yourself, or not be at all, if that is what you need.” He lightly brushes his fingertips over Herc’s knuckles, and Herc tries hard to not be annoyed at the gesture. This _is_ a touchy-feely place, isn’t it? He still hasn’t quite figured out whether it’s a massage salon or a brothel or both, but his feelings of discomfort are not diminishing at all.

 

Herc sighs and walks inside. The boy nods at him in approval. “Very sweet dreams,” he says with a giggle, and then closes the door behind him.

 

With the coat hooks and bathrobe on the wall Herc doesn’t really have to guess as to what the purpose here is, so he starts to undress. His dusty green Shatterdome civvies are at odds with the clean, warm, soft tones of the room, the white fluffy carpet tickling his feet and a light, wooden scent filling the air.

 

He puts the robe on and then opens the inner door. And almost immediately starts sweating. The temperature is up high, and the scent seems a little different—a hint of something familiar, something masculine he can’t place.

 

The rest of the room is surprisingly undecorated. There is a big massage table in the center, all white leather and chrome steel, and the walls are more of those large marble tiles; there’s a dresser with a sink in the same white-and-marble style, and a stack of towels on a raised part of the floor. Herc hears a curtain slide aside, and then a tall man steps forward, wearing long flowing white robes and a mask with wings on it. Well, okay then. Herc can play along.

 

“Welcome,” the masked man speaks with a booming voice. “I am Morpheus, the god of dreams. I am here to guide you to your dream.” He gestures towards the massage table, which is already covered with a large towel. “Let go your earthly wrappings.”

 

Herc is rolling his eyes so hard he thinks he popped a vein in one of ‘em, but what the hell. It’s all part of this place, and it must work for some people. Just that he’s seen too much violence and death in his lifetime to be able to go along with this level of quasi-spiritual mumbo-jumbo.

 

So he drops the robe on the floor, and stark naked, climbs onto the massage table, resting his head in the circular pillow. After about three seconds of staring at the uninteresting floor he closes his eyes.

 

The man who introduced himself as Morpheus runs a finger over Herc’s spine, and rests it at the base of his skull.

 

“I will ask you three questions, and your answers will lead you to your dream,” he speaks in a low voice, running his finger in a small circle. It’s actually kind of relaxing, and Herc figures he must be _really_ freaking tense if the nudge of a single finger manages to take some pressure off.

 

“You are walking down a long path. Sometimes it winds down into a valley, other times it curves up a mountain. You come to a standstill, and look behind you. What do you see?”

 

Herc sighs. Now he has to tolerate some of this visualization nonsense?

 

But his mind comes up with an image, clear as day, and it doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

“The city is burning,” Herc mumbles. “The sky is on fire. Skyscrapers turn into blackened husks, and then nothing but dust.”

 

Sydney.

 

A second finger joins on his neck, continuing to draw circles. Together with the temperature in the room and the strange scent, Herc’s starting to feel kind of light-headed.

 

“You are climbing a mountain, struggling to keep your ground, bracing yourself to keep moving, because you need to get to the top. What will you see when you get there?”

 

The vision that presents itself is one that makes Herc swallow hard. There’s really gotta be something in the air here. Maybe a hallucinogenic. He makes a mental note to break Tendo’s favorite mug just for all this weird hippy shit.

 

“An endless green grass pasture,” Herc says. “Blue sky. Laughter.”

 

He doesn’t mention how in this vision he’s also lying on the grass beside his son, cuddling. And happy. Fuck, it’s so ridiculous and cliche Herc thinks he’s gonna punch _himself_ for it when he gets out of here.

 

A third finger presses down on the top of his spine. “Now… you are walking through a forest, following a meandering path. You do not know what is behind you, or where you plan to go. You wander into a clearing. What do you see?”

 

Another vision shows up, but this one, Herc definitely isn’t going to describe out loud. It’s all sorts of sexy and debauched. Chuck looks like something out of a fairy tale, but a real spicy adult one, because he’s naked and spread out on a bed of moss, all wet and open and ready for his dad—

 

Herc does his best to suppress a groan when he hardens against the massage table.

 

“You have found your dream,” Morpheus says. He takes his hand off Herc, and by the fading sounds of his footsteps, leaves the room.

 

Herc just kind of lies there half-hard wondering what the hell is next. Because now that he’s gotten all worked up, he’s no longer _that_ ambivalent about getting one of those erotic massages.

 

He hears a new set of footsteps approaching, a different sound to them, naked feet on the stone tiles. Herc lifts himself up to see who’s there, but finds a hand is swiftly pressed over his eyes.

 

“Do not look,” the man whispers.

 

Herc groans. Whatever. He drops his head back into the round pillow.

 

Next thing he knows, cool, scented oil is poured on his shoulders, followed by a pair of firm hands spreading it over his back and arms. Herc can’t suppress a gasp. He’s really not done anything like this for a long time… hell, maybe never. Maybe with Angela, when they were young. And he’s so tense, he’s been so worked up.

 

Every press and roll of fingers and palms sends a flush of warmth through Herc’s body, releasing the wound up tension in his body touch by touch. He’s a Ranger, so his body is pretty much all hard muscle, especially his legs, and sure they get their physicals and physiotherapy but it’s all kind of watered down now that the end of the war is drawing near one way or the other.

 

He’s starting to think he should’ve done this sort of thing sooner.

 

When the masseur works out a knot out from under his right shoulder blade Herc audibly groans before he can catch himself.

 

And with that, he starts to let go, slowly drifting off under the masseur’s firm and expert attention to Herc’s old, hard, war-torn body. Big, warm hands squeezing the weariness out of his muscles, fingers working their way to his bones to roll away the tight knots that have lived there for years.

 

When the masseur turns his attention to Herc’s neck, Herc doesn’t even care what noises he makes anymore. His neck has felt like solid rock for almost the entire week and these fingers are making it melt. He moans, loudly, only slightly aware he’s getting hard again.

 

He becomes a hell of a lot more aware of it when the masseur moves to work on Herc’s lower body, however.

 

The masseur’s thumbs press and roll hard at the bottom of Herc’s spine, right above his buttocks, and loosen up something there that Herc can’t explain, only as a result a liquid heat rolls up through his spine and he grinds into the table below.

 

Then the masseur’s hands start working on his glutes and Herc doesn’t even want to pretend he’s not turned on as hell, with those firm fingers digging into his ass cheeks.

 

To his disappointment, the masseur quickly moves lower and works on his thighs and calves with the same attention he gave Herc’s back, warming up the rigid flesh stretched over his exhausted bones, pushing out knots and tension until Herc can barely feel his legs anymore.

 

Seems to him the massage is almost done, and he’s kind of unsatisfied, still sporting a chubs that’s digging into the fabric of the cloth he’s lying on.

 

But to his pleasant surprise, the masseur’s hands slide up his thighs again, and knead at his buttocks. Herc groans, and yeah, he doesn’t really care where this is going, just that this is more relaxed and sensual than he’s felt in years—decades—ever. So he lets the masseur do his thing, curious what happens next.

 

When the masseur’s attention to his rear has Herc grinding into the table again, the man’s hands let off for a second and then one hand spreads Herc’s cheeks as a slick finger slides over his asshole. Herc moans, his fingers curling lightly into the cloth on the table. Oh, yes. Now there’s a muscle that’s been tense for a while, and the thought has Herc chuckle.

 

The masseur’s finger is just as talented inside Herc as outside, stroking and pressing inside him, sensuously—almost _lovingly_ — nudging at the tight rings of muscle, slowly turning them slick and soft. Herc finds himself somehow _purring_ , which should be embarrassing as hell, but in here, who the hell is going to find out, right? He deserves to enjoy himself, and this masseur damn sure knows what he’s doing.

 

He whines when the finger slides out of him, and Herc sure hopes he’s not expected to go sadly jerk off in a bathroom after all this.

 

The masseur trails a hand up his spine, tangles in his hair, and turns his head to the side. Herc opens his eyes.

 

It’s Chuck.

 

Fire flares up in his chest, crawls over his skin, his drowsy mind scrabbling to make sense of this. He tries to form words, questions, like what the hell is Chuck doing here, what does this mean, and where do those amazing massage skills come from—

 

But Chuck brings his head close to Herc and kisses him, hard, needy.

 

And Herc can’t argue with that. He’s pretty fucking hard and needy himself right now.

 

The lips and tongue of his boy are pliant, welcoming, eager; so unlikely any of the kisses they’ve shared the past year, when they kissed at all. Herc doesn’t really want to remember how broken he felt whenever they’d fucked with only a few biting, necessary kisses. And this is all he’s ever wanted, Chuck just being _there_ with him, letting him in. Fuck, he doesn’t know how this is happening but he wants it to happen.

 

Chuck breaks off the kiss and presses his forehead to Herc’s.

 

“Boy—” Herc starts, but Chuck places a finger over his mouth to shush him. To Herc’s actual surprise, it works. This is certainly new, feeling like Chuck is the one in charge.

 

Then Chuck’s hand slides down his back again, cups an ass cheek. Herc raises an eyebrow, and his eyes meet his son’s, see the want and _need_ there.

 

Is this… does the kid want to…?

 

Herc tries to dig through his memories of their Drifts as fast as he can, searching for a hint of this, a glimmer of desire he might’ve missed because he was never looking for it. Because he’s the top and Chuck’s the bottom, and that’s how it’s always been, never even talked about it. Because a father fucking his son was taboo enough, the other way around is... and Herc’s mind kind of short-circuits for a few seconds, trying to bring back together the massive cognitive dissonance that’s happening.

 

And then he finds a piece of it, afloat in their Drift, dark and hidden and so small he hadn’t noticed it there.

 

_Dad, please._

 

_Dad, let me…_

 

_Dad, I want to…_

 

_I’m a man now, dad…_

 

Herc shivers, his gut wrenching up tight at the realization, Chuck’s feelings bleeding out from their shared memories. How happy he was, kneeling for his daddy, welcoming Herc between his legs, aching to feel Herc’s love and praise and approval—so much need, and hurt, and emptiness that wanted to be healed.

 

And Chuck growing up. His body becoming covered with thick dark curls of hair, shoulders broadening, becoming all rippling muscle and testosterone, a new roar of confidence with every Kaiju they smashed into pieces.

 

Herc sees it then; what they had no longer being enough for Chuck. And the boy doesn’t talk about it. Thinks his dad is never going to—won’t—it’s already bad enough they’re family, something like that… he can’t, Herc would never let him, wouldn’t—

 

And he remembers the fight they had. Only now realizes what Chuck was trying to say and how his unthinking reply fucked up everything.

 

The last tendril of memory he can latch on to is that of Chuck fucking another man, a techie or a jaeger fly, Herc can’t tell—and the brimming desire under Chuck’s skin, not for this guy, but for… for Herc. Dad. Not _daddy_.

 

Herc’s eyes soften, he pulls himself back into the present, and looks at Chuck again. Raises an arm and gestures for him to come closer.

 

Tugs at the white cotton shirt and slacks Chuck is wearing, still keep his gaze locked with his son’s. Wordlessly, Chuck undresses, and Herc isn’t surprised to see Chuck’s dick well on its way to being hard.

 

Herc’s not really sure what to say. It seems a lot of words between them just fuck things up. He knows what his boy wants.

 

His own mind is still reeling, though. The thought of Chuck being on top—a son fucking his father. It doesn’t seem _right_ , but then, everything the two of them have done isn’t right by most people’s standards. And they never gave a shit before.

 

And now that he’s thinking about it, seriously considering it, he’s slowly becoming aware that yes, this is something he’s not opposed to, maybe something he’s even curious about, even though he hasn’t had a dick inside him for like a decade—but this is _Chuck_ and—

 

Herc groans, drops his head to the table again.

 

If he’s gonna wait until he can make up his mind they’re gonna leave this place more unsatisfied and pissed off than ever.

 

So he looks up at his boy. Who’s looking at him with sheer desperation, a torrent of unspoken pleas, and the hint of assertive desire he has, the kind that demands instead of yields. And it’s that hint that makes Herc smile.

 

He nods at his son. “Yeah,” he says. “Yes.”

 

Chuck bites his lip, jaw trembling. Almost like he was when he was just 16, begging for Herc to touch him. So young, then, and Herc had waited until he was 18 despite all the boy’s pleas and protests, and now… now his son was a big, strong man, a _soldier_. And he’s so fucking proud of him it hurts.

 

Yeah. Yeah, this is good.

 

Herc sinks down into the pillow, assumes the position he’d had during the massage, stares at the floor. Then closes his eyes.

 

It takes almost a minute before Chuck does anything, perhaps too stunned by his dad’s permission. But then, he resumes where he left off. Slides his hands—and fuck, who would’ve thought Chuck’s hands were capable of a fantastic massage? Herc’s gotta ask him about that later—down Herc’s back again, down to his buttocks, kneading them.

 

And, shit. He is getting a hell of a lot harder now that he knows the masseur is Chuck, is his son, touching him like that.

 

Chuck’s finger slips back inside his ass and this time it’s twice as good, because it’s _his son’s finger_ and that’s so terribly, deliciously taboo Herc doesn't know what to do with himself.

 

He’s still soft and relaxed, but Chuck takes his time, just sliding that digit back and forth and stroking his dad’s tightness inside until Herc is bucking up towards Chuck’s hand and that’s when a second finger joins.

 

Herc expected the burn to be worse but it’s not, he just feels at ease and maybe it’s everything here, the massage and the heat in the room and the heady, masculine perfume that’s filling the air.

 

Chuck knows what he’s doing, has those fingers press and scissor inside Herc, curling and teasing, and when the pads of Chuck’s digits brush over his prostrate Herc moans. Oh, yes, this is good, this is real good, being fingered by his boy like this… he’s grinding into the table again, and shifts back a little, lifting his ass up towards Chuck.

 

“Dad,” Chuck says. His voice is soft and reverent and laced with wonder and desire, and Herc loves the sound of it. Loves this new way of Chuck addressing him, not the whimpering, desperate _daddy_ but this demanding, lustful _dad_ with the deep timbre of Chuck’s big boy vocal chords and a man’s need vibrating through them.

 

Herc lifts his head, and looks back, glancing at Chuck. Worry flies across his boy’s face, if maybe this isn’t okay after all, but when Herc gives him a breathy “More, son,” Chuck’s expression melts into one that Herc’s _definitely_ never seen on the kid before. A real smirk, dimpled and dark and full of want. And a third finger slips in.

 

The stretch is starting to hurt now, Herc really isn’t used to this anymore, but then Chuck climbs on the table, climbs on top of him, kisses up his spine and up his neck and runs a hand into his dad’s hair, the ginger matching his own reddish shade. “Fuck, dad…” Chuck whispers, and the boy’s cock is incredibly hard and hot against his thigh.

 

“Yeah,” Herc grits out. “You do that.”

 

Chuck shudders and lets out a shaky breath at that, rests his head on the back of his dad’s shoulder. Chuck’s three digits are still idly writhing and pressing inside Herc, teasing the tight muscles further apart, making him relax with the same expertise Chuck’s fingers displayed on Herc’s outside muscle. And when Chuck’s digits rub circles on his prostate again, Herc groans. “Ready,” he sighs, shivering over his own admittance to the fact that right now more than anything else he wants to feel his boy’s cock inside him.

 

Chuck’s fist in Herc’s hair tightens, then relaxes. Another whispered ‘dad’. And then, Chuck’s fingers slide out of him and the thick, impossibly hot head of his son’s dick his nudging against his hole.

 

“C’mon, son,” Herc growls. “Gimme more.”

 

Chuck pushes inside. Breaches him. His own son’s cock, thrusting inside, forcing apart the tightness, _fucking his dad_. Herc groans, long and loud, and Chuck is shaking on top of him, the kid’s breaths short and shallow. Jesus Christ, it’s so fucking good.

 

And then Chuck begins to move. First with tentative, jerking movements, almost as if he’s afraid to hurt his old man. That’s kind of adorable, but Herc can take it. “Harder, boy,” he groans, and Chuck definitely takes that to heart when his next stroke is fiercer, deeper, and has Herc digging his fingers into the table again.

 

“Dad, dad, fuck…” Chuck sighs as he increases his pace, sliding further out before slamming back in, his hand in Herc’s hair tightening again. Their moans and grunts are echoing through the massage room, where it seems to be a zillion degrees now. It’s so hot, and Chuck is on top of him, the friction between their bodies making them covered in sweat, smelling of musk and sex, Chuck’s hips smacking into his buttocks with loud, wet slaps.

 

Chuck’s arms slide up over Herc’s body, grasping his shoulders for leverage, and then Chuck whimpers, the rhythm in his thrusts faltering as he sobs another ‘dad’.

 

His son’s coming inside of him.

 

Herc groans, lets Chuck give what he needs to, takes it all in. He thinks maybe somewhere if they were remotely sane it wouldn’t feel this good, but it does, right from the liquid heat spreading inside to his boy’s softening cock slipping out.

 

It takes a while for Chuck to come back to his senses, and that’s fine, even with the weight of Chuck’s body on top of him and Herc feeling so hot he thinks he’s gonna pass out.

 

When Chuck climbs off him, Herc sits up, flinching slightly when his weight presses down on his rear. Yeah, he’s gonna be sore. But it’s the kind of soreness he loves.

 

Chuck is staring at him, flushed and giddy, grinning and everything, and Herc can’t help but smirk back.

 

Herc's hand wraps around Chuck’s wrist and the boy lets Herc tug him in between Herc's legs, folds his body over his dad’s, and they kiss, and it’s different than before. Chuck’s feistier, more confident, demanding to taste his dad. It’s... new, and good.

 

Then Chuck drops to his knees and slides his hands over Herc’s thighs, licking his lips. Because, yeah, Herc is still so fucking hard it hurts, and he was gonna ask his boy to do something about that.

 

Herc runs a hand into Chuck’s hair. “Go on,” he says.

 

Chuck bites his lip and looks away from Herc, like he’s waiting for something. Herc frowns. What does the kid want from him now?

 

Then Chuck’s gaze meets his eyes again. “Make me, dad,” he says, stubbornly, jutting out his jaw.

 

Herc snorts with laughter. If this is the new game they’re playing, he’s definitely into it. He tightens his grip on Chuck’s hair and yanks his head back.

 

“Suck your dad’s dick, son,” Herc growls.

 

Chuck’s smirk is wonderful. “Make me,” he repeats.

 

So Herc does. Pulls the boy’s head forward, forces open Chuck’s jaw with his thumb, and crams his fat length down his son’s throat.

 

The groan of pleasure from Chuck is unmistakable.

 

Herc lets himself slide off the table with his dick still in Chuck’s mouth and holds Chuck’s head there with an iron grip, thrusting forward with a deep, long grunt.

 

Chuck’s fingers curl into the flesh of Herc’s thighs as Herc fucks the kid’s face, ‘till tears are streaming down Chuck’s face from gagging and the boy’s cheeks are all red. But there’s no denying the look on his son’s face, gleeful and arrogant, no mistaking the vibration of the soft moans coming from Chuck around his dick every time Herc slides home into his boy’s narrow, wet gullet.

 

And when Herc comes, it’s fucking amazing, his balls squeezing up so tight he’s seeing stars, spilling into the back of Chuck’s mouth over and over.

 

He thinks he must’ve blacked out for just a second, because next thing he knows Chuck is sort of half-dragging, half-walking him out of the massage room to another room that is thankfully a lot cooler. And, he notices, has a shower.

 

He steals a glance at Chuck, who’s still smiling. If he’s going to be this way from now on, people might actually start thinking the kid’s a nice person.

 

“There’s also a jacuzzi,” Chuck remarks.

 

“That so,” Herc mumbles.

 

He’s still not quite sure how any of this happened. How Tendo managed to get Chuck here, or if it’s all some bizarre coincidence. Herc doesn’t care. He’s got his boy back, and evidently, the possibility of fucking him in a jacuzzi. Or maybe he’ll let the kid do him instead. It’s all good. It’s pretty damn good, like this. And if Chuck wants to fuck the Becket kid… maybe he’s okay with that. Hell, maybe he can join in. Almost sounds like a dream come true.

 

He slaps Chuck on the rear and shoves him into the roomy shower. “Better get your ass clean, kid,” he growls.

 

Chuck laughs. “Oh yeah, old man?”

 

“Yeah,” Herc says, and slams Chuck against the shower wall, turning the water on all the way cold. Chuck lets out a startled scream and then pulls Herc in.

 

“You little bastard,” Herc murmurs against the skin of Chuck’s neck as his hand reaches for the water tap. Maybe a bit _too_ cold, this.

 

“Dad,” Chuck gasps.

 

Yeah. It’s good like this. It's damn good.


End file.
